The Revolving Case
by Megorien
Summary: John is suffering from nightmares from Afghanistan but Sherlock is in denial. But what will happen when an unknown madman kidnaps Sherlock's best and only friend and will a little game of Russian roulette be in order?
1. Chapter 1

**Thanks for giving my story a go! You really are an awesome person! This is my first fanfic ... like EVER so it won't be the best piece of literature you have ever read but it will still be great! ;)  
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**BE FORE WARNED: A lot happens in the first chapter (a lot of relation ship building/tearing down and action) but the story WILL slow down in the next chapter! I promise!  
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**OH! I almost forgot!  
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**I do not own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson or any one else you might recognize from the books/shows/movie  
... but if I did...*evil laugh* ... oh the things they would do! *louder evil laugh*  
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**~ Enjoy :3  
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**Chapter 1 - It Was A Normal Day Until...**

"CAPTIAN!" the Lieutenant screamed to his left. "WE NEED ORDERS CAPTIAN!"

A large explosion went off near the Captain's head and left him with a ring in his ears and a vibration in his brain, which was NOT helping his mind process everything. A rather large piece of shrapnel landed by his feet and he flinched at the sudden appearance of steel.

_I need to get the men out!_ He screamed at himself. The Taliban had been hammering with a non-stop wave of AK-47s _for how long was it? 2… no… 3 hours? _

The major in charge of the operation had been hit by a piece of shrapnel from the land mine that has initially gotten them in to this mess. A piece of the hummer, that was once an asylum of safety, had severed the major's neck, from the right common cateroid all the way over to his left vertebral, giving him a bloody but quick death and leaving _him _in charge.

A bullet rickashay by the Captain's feet brought him back to reality as he turned to the strong Lieutenant on his left. "Right. Get HQ on the wireless and demand that we need air support, we aren't going any where until we can get back control of the road." The Lieutenant nodded and turned on his knees.

He immediately turned to a young Second Lieutenant green eyes full of fear and weary, "YOU!" He got his attention. "I want you to take eight men, four left, four right. Get over the hill and clear that tower!" He pointed at the mosque sheltering the enemy. "Be silent and stealthy. We need to take out **that** **fucking** **sniper**."

And as if to make his point, a lovely piece of lead buried itself in to a patch of dirt directly to the left of his head, a small puff of dirt quickly following. The captain froze, his heart beating out of his chest. He was about to wet himself but none of that mattered now. He had men to take care of. People waiting for them back home. And he had what exactly?

He felt the panic rise in his chest once again and his instincts began to take over. "GO! DO IT NOW!" he shouted as he pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it over the flipped hummer, or what was left of it.

He dropped to his knees hugged his weapon, closed his eyes, took a deep breath then crept around the corner of the hummer. Peaking his head out just enough to get a good look. He fired off three round bursts at anything that moved.

Every emotion he could possibly think of was screaming at his brain and mixing with the adrenalin pumping through his system. This did not make for a good combination and it took everything the Combat ready medic Captain had not to give in to his animal instincts and jump out in the middle of the carnage and charge the enemy head on! _No. Not a good move. Defiantly NOT a good move._

"CAPTIAN!" The Lieutenant was back. "I hope you have good news lad." Growled the Captain. "Sir, they radioed back. The planed nearby aren't nearly accurate enough to hit this small road! But they said they could hit the mosque no problem, so I told them to light those bastards up!"

The Doctor's eyes widened and dilated to about the size of a penny. His head snapped over his shoulder to the mosque, his eyes scanning for any signs of the troop he has sent into the mosque.

"CALL IT OFF!"

"Wha-"

"I SAID CALL IT OFF! WE HAVE PEOPLE IN THERE GOD DAMIT!"

The Lieutenant's face was bitten with horror as scrambled back to the radio in record breaking time. The Captain's eyes darted up and down the mosque, scanning for any signs of internal conflict. _What if they were already dead? _His eyes widened even more at the thought. He looked down at the corpse of a young officer and his hand ripped the radio off of the young man.

His finger hesitated over the button, _NO. DAMIT! What if they are alive? This call might give away their position! _The fury in his chest began to rise as it became more and more apparent that he had sent his men, _his men _into a death trap. The men _he_ was responsible for! He might as well have put the bullet in their brain himself.!

His brain and body completely shut down as he heard the low hum of a Hawker Siddeley Hawk engine, cutting through the sky. _Its too late. _He watches as the aircraft streaked through the sky rolling its belly towards his trapped platoon.

Red. All he saw was red.

The Captain did the only thing that seemed to make sense; he stood up straight and watched as the bird preformed the duty _he_ had requested it to do. It probably only took a 5 seconds, but it felt like and eternity to the Captain. He watched in slow motion as the bomb was released. His firing arm reaching out to the package of death, absolutely loathing of him self as all he could do was watch.

Just before the package struck the surface of the mosque a sharp pain appeared in his right shoulder. All senses turned off. He felt the pain, the absolute agony, but he didn't care. He couldn't care about anything then. His brain just packed up and left, with out saying good-bye. _What a sad thought…_

He took a step forward, towards the rapid machine gun fire. He heard distant shouting. _Something like… wa..son….wason? what was a wason?_ He took another step forward as three more rounds penetrated his chest…. _Watson! WATSON! _Two more rounds._ WATSON! _There wasa loud thump on his chest as he looked down to see a grenade just thrown from a launcher, smiling up at his feet. _WATSON! _

"WATSON!"

John's eyes snapped open and his hand immediately fell for his rifle, always laying by his bed. _Where is it? Where was his fucking SA80?... Who took it? _Horror over powered John's senses as he grabbed the hands that, he now realized, had been shaking him furiously.

_Was I captured? Am I being interrogated? That's the only explanation for my missing weapon! _His brain shut down and went in to the pure instinct mode. With terror and furry in his eyes, he flipped his attacker on his stomach. John's knee pressed dangerously hard against the man's ribs. _Good! I hope I break one!_

He pinned the arms to the back of his attacker and sat on the part of the back that was right behind the chest. With his free hand he grabbed a fist full of hair and yanked it back towards his mouth so he could speak into the attacker's ear.

"All right you sun of a bitch," John growled, "where the FUCK is my WEAPON!? Where are we? And if you so much as SCRACHED my platoon I'll gut you from you from your chin to your balls." The tone of his voice was low, gravely, and horribly terrifying. John new so and only EVER used it on insertions.

When he didn't get an answer quick enough John yanked back the head and slammed it into the ground. He repeated the process three times and just when he though his victim didn't speak English he heard a whimper. It was a sad voice mixed with confusion and terror, and was surprisingly…. English?

"John…" _What? I know this voice…_

"John… its ok. Just calm down. Everything is ok now." _WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!_

Suddenly the room began to appear in front of him. He was in a bedroom… his bedroom… there was an alarm clock that read 03.00. He scanned the room and slowly put the pieces together. He was in London, in a flat he rented from Mrs. Hudson on 221B Baker Street with Sherlock. Safe, away from the bullets and the blood. Away from his fallen comrades. Safe in the comfort of his best friend, Sherlock… _Oh my god! Sherlock!_

John sprang off his victim and stared at the body below him. The matted black hair he had been pulling out was flat and messy. The ivory skin slightly darkened around the half closed eyes and… blood… a steady flow of blood trailing down flawless skin and dripping on to the floor. _Oh my god. What have I done? _ So many things raced through his head but only one thing managed to slip out of John's mouth.

"SHERLOCK!"

* * *

**SPV**

Pounding. That's all Sherlock could feel. A deep, painful throbbing in the back of his eyes, ever present and John's penlight was **not** helping at all. "Ok, all good. You seem to have a minor concussion, but nothing a cup of brew wont' fix."

"I though you weren't aloud to have caffeine when your brain bounces off the inside of your skull." Sherlock said bitterly. He immediately regretted it, however as his partner rapidly turned a new, undiscovered shade of white.

John quickly flashed Sherlock a small smile and said, "That's only a myth! Doctors say the oddest things that don't make any sense but no one questions them because they are... well they are the doctor! Doctors orders and such." John quickly turned on his heels, "I'll make some tea."

Sherlock sighed and shook his hand off his injury when a cup was forced into his other hand. He cupped the dish with his fingers and examined it out of boredom.

_White, black gain spots. Chipped edge from John undoughatably slaming the cups back into the cubbord in that annoying fashion that he does. Probably made in china. Plastic imported from Taiwan embedded in the clay. Cheap, effective. Coffee stains 3 years old. The image of a smiling, purple cat present on the front and back of the mug. Hand painted, short defined strokes suggest a child painted it. A child far too small to be working in a factory._

Sherlock sighed. The world was a twisted place and he honestly had no idea why he was there. A world where a child grows up in suffering to paint a smiling cat over and over for some fat, lazy kid to use later was disgusting. Worse, the kid probably wont grow up at all.

He glanced up at John whom sat across from Sherlock at the kitchen table. His face lined and old. Bags heavy under his eyes. That's what the military did. PTSD. Common among many solders coming back from Afghanistan. Common in places of war…. _War… what a horrible world this must be. For something to make his best friend loose his mind like that…._

"Sherlock? Are you even listening to me?"

"hmm?"

"I said, Lestrade called while you were out. Said he had an interesting case for us."

John examined the glaze that had fallen over Sherlock's eyes. "God damit." John swore under his breath. Normally he would had left his friend to his mind palace or whatever but he was worried about the concussion he had caused. John snapped twice in front of Sherlock's face. A gesture that would normally bring out a bitter treatment from Sherlock for the rest of the day.

"Hey!" He was greeted by sad eyes, slowly moving back into reality.

"Sorry John, I was just thinking how a cruel the world is."

"What?" John was speechless. Hadn't he been in trouble for nearly killing his flat mate?

"What did you say?" he honestly didn't know how much longer he could keep up with the man if he kept swapping masks like this.

Sherlock sighed quietly one last time then shot up, sitting straight, his full attention on John.

"Never mind that!" Sherlock Chirped. "Tell me about this case!"

John's confused eyes wandered over his mate, checking for anything that could have prompted these actions. "yea… um… Better tell you in the car. They have been waiting for a while now, keeping the forensic team out of the scene so you can look it over it **not** all that easy… I'm told."

Sherlock paused before answering, making a mental note to be less hostile towards Lestrade for keeping the scene clean. "Right then. I'll go get ready." He turned to his flat mate again. He saw the distress on John's face, that he was clearly trying to hide. John's eyes were flickering all over Sherlock, checking for any other damage he might have inflicted. Sherlock smiled at his flat mate.

"You're forgiven John, don't worry too much. You have enough already on your mind. Get ready and I'll meet you in the cab outside in 10 minutes."

John stared at the man in front of him. _Who is this man and where did Sherlock go?... maybe it is the concussion?… _He looked down at his cup before nodding at Sherlock with understanding. Sherlock nodded back and turned to his room, satisfied with the color that had come back into his best friends face.

_John will be fine. John is always fine. He'll grow out of it and be good as New!_ Sherlock had been telling him self that for the past two weeks now_. _Ever since John's nightmares came back. But how could he believe any differently?

* * *

Sherlock re-adjusted the bandage on his forehead and smoothed his hair over the plastic. _Nobody should notice if they don't look too closely._ John glanced over at his friend as he got in the taxi.

"Took your bloody time did we?" Sherlock said in a neutral tone. He didn't even bother glancing at John's reaction.

"Piss off." John playfully hissed. Heavy with sarcasm, John bumped the back of his hand on Sherlock's Thigh. "Had to powder my nose on the way out." John smirked.

Sherlock sat back, his face carefully expressionless. John smiled, knowing he had won and handed a yellow sticky note with the address to the taxi driver. "There is an extra 10 pounds if you get us there in under 30 min." John grinned.

"Running late are we gents?" the driver mused. He glanced down at the sticky note and his head shot back up. "You boys sure you want to go here? I mean the two of you together in this neighborhood with your…um… kind of relationship… you could find yourself a problem real fast."

Sherlock lunged forward, "What we do with our day doesn't concern you. Now I recommend you get back to you wife considering that she has been having an affair with you neighbor, but you all ready knew that. Now the faster you get us to where we need to go, the fewer bases you neighbor gets to run. Oh! And I suggest you take a Tumbes and stand by the toilet with a role of toilet paper when you get there. The enchiladas at the stand around the corner have never been all that friendly to any thing that contains an esophagus."

The taxi driver glanced at John who had pinched the bridge of his nose.

"How did he-"

"He just does that."

"But-"

John turned to Sherlock with an irritated expression. "We _really_ need to work on your people skills."

"Says the man that bashed my head in to the floor twice."

"Three times actually! But, that doesn't matter because you bit the poor man's head off for no reason!"

"But! HE-"

"NO REASON!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock leaned back once again in defeat as the taxi began to drive away. As the car pulled off the curb John decided that no more damage could possibly be done.

"And we **aren't gay either, damit!" **John added as the taxi zoomed off.

* * *

"What was the cause of death?"

"I don't know. There's no sign of trauma any where." Said John. He lifted up the victim's hand and carefully examined it. "No signs of a struggle or marks of any kind. Its like she just sat down and died."

"Heart failure?" chimed Sherlock.

"…. No. Defiantly not. I already checked. Her heart was in perfect working condition."

"What do _you_ think then?"

John sighed and looked over the body once more. "If I had to guess I would say… " John sucked in a deep breath through his teeth and held it. "Poison? But the lab would have to confirm."

"No need, I agree fully."

"Really? Why or… how?"

"There is simply no trace of anything."

"What?"

"I can't smell, see, hear, taste, or otherwise sense any form of murder. As far as I can tell the only thing wrong is that her heart is not working presently."

John nodded. He had noticed the surprising lack of evidence as well. "Let me look her over one last time to make sure I didn't miss anything."

Sherlock nodded and got off his knees, then began pacing the apartment to look for clues. He went into the kitchen and examined everything from top to bottom; It was when he was standing on the counter that Lestrade walked in.

_CRAP!_ Thought Sherlock. He looked down on the officer as Lestrade approached._ Be nice Sherlock, he saved the crime scene for you. Be nice because he was nice to you._ Sherlock smiled to himself. John was in his head now too!

Lestrade gave the kitchen a quick look over then turned to face Sherlock.

"Sherlock."

"Lestrade"

"…"

"…"

"You mind telling me what your doing contaminating the crime scene?"

_Well, well, your awfully calm today._ Sherlock looked the policeman over once and grinned to himself, whilst biting his tongue. Lestrade began on one of his rant about how Sherlock had contaminated the crime scene and how if he continued this nonsense then he would be forced to take action or some nonsense like that. But Sherlock wasn't listening. Sherlock was more preoccupied with yanking the hidden camera out of the wall. He finally managed to pull the damn thing out of the vice-like grip it was in and handed it to Lestrade.

"If you give that to the lab now they might be able to trace the signal back to the owner."

Lestrade let a look of shock slip through, but he quickly corrected himself and took the camera, clearing his throat. Sherlock stifled a smirk .

"Right! And we better get to work on finding the husband." He said as he leaped down from the counter. Lestrade spun around faster than Sherlock had ever seen him move.

"What did you say?" He growled. _Oh great._ thought Sherlock, _now he WANTS a fight._

John looked up from his examination to the sound of two men, who could only be arguing for dominance. There was only 1 man in this flat that could regrade any grown man down to a highschooler bickering with their parents, and only 1 man that had dared to instigate arguments such as these. With the exception of John, oh course. _Jesus christ! Won't they ever give it a rest?_

"ALLRIGHT LADIES!" John said bursting through the room. "I found something! A bit of powder on the corner of her mouth, I don't know if it helps but it is the only thing I've got."

"Thank you Watson, that helps quite a bit actually. If you allow me I'll explain."

"All right, fine." Lestrade stiffly passed the camera to another officer and instructed them to trace back the signal ASAP then placed his hands on his hips.

"Alright Sherlock, were waiting." Said John, leaning agents the doorframe with a look that could only say _'impress me'. _ Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards at the challenge. He took a moment to organize his thoughts before sucking in a big breath and pointing toward a box of cereal.

"Lucky charms, the cereal of someone not at all concerned about their breakfast habits. Miss Gredson was rather fit, I doubt she would have let such substance get in to her system. No, not when she went to the gym every day except Tuesdays. Thus suggesting a second person living in the flat."

"But she was married, having a second box of cereal in the house isn't unusual at all." Questioned Lestrade.

"Yes, but where is our lovely hubby now?"

"In Japan working business."

"Yesss. And he has been there for a year now so tell me sir, why would there be cereal, bought yesterday according to this reciept," Sherlock healed up a scrupled up wad of paper covered in tomato sauce from his pocket, "in a house where no one eats it? Better yet, why is the box half empty and twice as much food needed for one person present in the fridge? Hmm?" Sherlock gave them exactly 2.5 seconds to answer. When no one did he continued.

"Miss Gredson was having an affair. Now, with whom? Being as fit as she was Miss Gredson did buy a lot of pizza from the shop round the corner. These recites show that she ordered on a regular schedule of every Wednesday and Friday for the past year. My guess is that she met a delivery boy and decided she would have her way with him, but things got serious. He started staying over, there relationship grew more intense." Sherlock whirled around to look at the ceiling where he had pulled out the camera.

Quietly he looked at the ground, lost in thought. "But none of that relation ship stuff matters the-"

"I'm sorry, WHAT?" butted John. Sherlock turned to face him. John had his head bent so that his right ear was closer to Sherlock. An expression of distaste evident on John's face. No one else probably saw it. It was a look meant for Sherlock's eyes only. Sherlock glared at John and John glared back. _John wants me to care. How sweet!_ With a big sigh Sherlock waved off John's silent comment and continued his tail.

"The camera," He said as he folded his arms. "Clearly someone was watching them. I wouldn't doubt if there were at least 4 other cameras in the apartment and you should probably find them soon before they blow up."

"WHAT?!" both John and Lestrade screamed. John pushed himself off the wall and spread his feet, his arms at his side looking for the hand gun that Sherlock suspected would normally be tied to his right Quad, ready to run at a moment's notice. John didn't even register his action but Sherlock took a mental note then turned to Lestrade.

"Its fine! Just a tiny explosion! One _just_ big enough to destroy the camera but no where near big enough to harm any body. I disconnected the one I gave you from the bomb so we would have at least one piece of evidence before your agents go and screw it up. Your welcome by the way." _So much for being nice!_

The room relaxed and Lestrade began to bark out orders. People flew left and right while Sherlock and John pressed against the wall. "OW!" John exclaimed.

"What? What happened?" Sherlock asked with genuine concern in his face.

"someone stepped on my foot!"

"Your foot?"

"Yes! MY FOOT! And it bloody hurt!"

"Oh come on it can't be that-"

"SHERLOCK! JOHN! DON' . !" Screamed Lestrade.

"What? What is it?" fear began to creep up on John once again. There were very few things that could make Lestrade yell like that.

"What the hell have you done now?" John said at Sherlock.

"Me? Why Me?"

"Because you're the _only one that manages to piss him_ _off… like… that.."_

John's last few words were slow and spaced out, mainly because his attention was else where. While all the chaos had been undergo, somehow all the Displays had turned on. The Plasma in the living room, the small TV in the fridge, the laptop on the counter, and the electric picture frame in the diner. All visible from Sherlock's and John's standpoint. In the displays was a live stream of two men, one tall and thin the other short and stocky. One with ivory skin and black hair, another with normal English complexion and blond hair. The whole room turned to look at the detective and his friend, but as the two moved to get out of the way two red dots appeared on Sherlock's forehead. Both of them froze and a message appeared on the displays.

**This man must walk outside alone, unarmed, hands behind the head. If he does not comply then the tall young man to his right will no longer have a head.**

Pictures of John flashed through the screen. Pictures of him with Sherlock, pictures of him going into the flat, pictures of him picking up groceries, and many more continued to flash on the screen.

John should have been panicking, he should have been scared for his life but his leadership instincts were taking over and his expression became as hard as a rock. He planted his feet firmly on the ground and squared his hips up to where he thought the camera watching them would be.

More pictures of him and Sherlock. More pictures of him and Sara. More pictures of him INSIDE SCOTLAND YARD! Pictures of him eating, pictures of him waiting for the bus, pictures of him in a taxi. More and more pictures flashed on the screen. Hell! Even picture of him meeting Mycroft!

Then, finally, the pictures stopped and more instructions appeared.

**JOHN WATSON**

**LEAVE THE ROOM IMMEADIATLY**

**OR SHERLOCK HOLMES WILL DIE**

**IF ANY BODY MOVES AN INCH**

**THE BOMBS PLACED ON THE FOUNDATIONS OF THIS BUILDING**

**WILL**

**EXPLODE**

**KILLING EVERYONE.**

To make his point the Kidnapper showed another live feed of the foundations with bombs strapped onto the columns holding up the building. To prove that it was real, two officers that had been posted outside were tied up to one of the poles, duck tape across their mouth.

The display split into two screens the left half showing the bombs, the right half keyed on John Watson.

There was only one thing John could do. He turned and began to make his way to the door, only to be stopped by Sherlock who caught his sleeve.

**CAREFULL SHERLOCK!**

**DON'T DO ANYTHING STUPID NOW…**

One of the cameras blew up, just as a threat. Sherlock looked John straight in the eyes. His heart opened up and he tried desperately to get the message across to his only and best friend. _Please don't go!_ Was what he wanted to say but instead Sherlock's fear turned to anger and rage enveloped his heart. He mouthed a message.

_I WILL find you._

John gazed back, the look on Sherlock's face was one that he had never seen before. He had seen Sherlock irritated and frustrated, and a bored Sherlock was never a good thing either, but an _angry_ Sherlock… a calm swept over John and he mouthed back.

_I know._

With that, John turned and made his way to the front of the building. Sherlock watched with growing horror as the camera displaying John began to change. As John moved out of range of one camera, the feed switched to another. Following John down the corridor to the main lobby.

Sherlock watched helplessly as his frightened friend walked towards the front of the building. He made it outside and you could just barely see a black van pull up in front of John. John stepped back, ready to run, but something made him stop. John stood there. **He** **just** **stood** **there**. Then suddenly, John collapsed and a single man dressed in black came in from the left frame. He scooped John up and tossed him in the van. The man walked out the left frame again and the Van drove away.

Immediately, people began to move.

"STOP! NOBODY MOVE!" Sherlock screamed, "THIS ISNT OVER YET!"

**VERY GOOD SHERLOCK!**

**YOU ARE A CLEVER ONE, AREN'T YOU?**

**THANKS FOR PLAYING MY LITTLE GAME!**

**I'LL JUST BE BORROWING YOU FRIEND FOR A BIT.**

**YOU CAN HAVE HIM BACK!**

**…**

**LATER**

**…**

**I NEED TO HAVE MY FUN FIRST.**

**YOU ARE ALL FREE TO GO.**

The little red light on the bomb flicked off and then, just as suddenly as they all turned on, every display flicked off.

No body moved. No body spoke. Everyone was dead silent. It occurred to Sherlock that they were waiting for him to release them.

"YES! YOU CAN MOVE! NOW GO! GO GET HIM!" screamed Sherlock desperately.

The world began to spin faster, Sherlock's eyes blurred and he fell to his knees. People were running about him but he couldn't tell. He couldn't see, hear, or feel anything around him. His mind raced at 100 miles per hour. But all he could think of was that same image. John collapsing on himself. As if he had been shot, as if he had died.

That same image played over and over in Sherlock's mind. The only person he cared about was now in the hands of a murderer and somehow, Sherlock knew it was all his fault. This horrible world had taken John, **his John!** And **nothing** was going to stop him from getting him back.

* * *

**I Need to thank Nicole Hudson for walking me through this and editing everything I sent her! She is an amazing writer and even better friend! 3 Lov ya babe! :P**

** Next chapter will (hopefully) be up by next week so KEEP IN TOUCH! ~ And don't forget, the review box does not bite ;) I really need reviews even if you didn't like the chapter so I can make the next one better!**


	2. Chapter 2

**SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE! I was really busy with other commitments for a while and when I DID manage to write I hated what ever I made, so I set my laptop on fire and tossed it out the window. I then had to go buy a new laptop and i tried again... but I still hated what I wrote so I set the NEW laptop of fire - determined to destroy any evidence of the trash I had written! It was only till I had gotten throught the 4th chapter that someonf showed me how to use the delete/backspace button (*MAGIC*)... so... yea... that is my excuse... I have LOADS of ideas for the next chapter and I cant stop writing them all down! o Any suggestions are more then welcome and don't forget to review!  
**

**I changed the ratinf from T to M because... I didn't know it was on T... and for Torture, Bad language, and rather, what some might call, uncomfortable positions...CAUTION: Read the warning before hand... this story might take a different turn so stay tuned!**

**Right... well... ENJOY! :3**

* * *

**JPV**

Chapter 2

John stepped out on to the street. The cold nipping at his cheeks and his hands shaking. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and felt around to see what he had as far as a weapon. _They can blackmail me into walking outside but there is NO way in HELL that they are taking me without a fight!_

He felt around. _A pen… could come in handy… A receipt… a couple of receipts actually… what is that? A lighter? … a… a tooth brush! What the hell? Why do you have a toothbrush? What are you gonna do John? Scrub his teeth to death? ... Damit! ...It doesn't matter… Think JOHN! THINK!_

But before John could take any action, a black van, far too quiet for John's liking, screeched to a halt in front of him. His hands snapped out of his pocket and he took a step back and prepared to run for his life, survival instincts, once again, taking over. _NO! Stupid! He'll blow up the building!_

John forced his feet to stay in place as a man dressed in black, about the height of Sherlock emerged from the driver's seat of the van. _No one else in the van? Interesting. _John made a mental note. The guy was probably working alone if there wasn't any one else in the back of the van to snatch John.

The man slowly walked around the front of the van, his fingers trailing the hood of the car. He never took his eyes off John from behind the black, ski mask.

"Who the HELL _are_ you?" John managed to spit out. He was pleasantly surprised at how strong his voice sounded. He watched as a smile, that could only be described as disturbed, spread across the man's face. John watched with ever increasing horror as the kidnaper licked his lips and looked John over.

"How about you just show me your face mate? Alright? Haven't I earned that much?" John whispered just loud enough for the man to hear. The Kidnaper began to chuckle a deep, rocky laugh. A shiver went down the doctor's spine.

_Breath._ John reminded himself. _You've been in this situation before._ Flashbacks of Moriarty strapping a bomb to his chest and laughing in his ear as he did it flicked through his mind. _But I survived that, I can survive this._

John took the chance to look over his assailant. He was correct about the height, but nothing else. The man had a v-shaped body and long thick legs. He wore a black, long sleeved t-shirt that was, at least, 3 sizes too small. The fabric clung to his defined forearms, moving its way up to the shoulders that could have been two, small bowling balls, if you didn't know better. His neck was thick but defined and his shirt, once again, showed _way_ too much of his pex for John's liking. In addition, an eight pack was clearly present. _Show off, _Was all John thought.

His eyes wandered lower as he observed the man's black cargo pants and combat boots. His eyes stopped at the Glock 23 strapped to the man's thigh. _Well, lets see what your pen can do NOW genius! _Thought John.

The man finally stopped chuckling and reached to yank the ski mask off his face. John slipped up, and caught him self mid gasp. His hands slowly moved to his side and began signing. An old military trick, if you were captured by the enemy and put out for display, you could give off different tells, depending on your situation. If your hands were tied but your eyes free, the angles at which you looked and the twitch the right or left side of your mouth could, if you were good, spell out a word or situation. If you were lucky and your hands were slightly free and visible then you could tap out _any_ message, like a complex version of Morse code.

John began to shift his feet in an attempt to draw attention away from his hands. He tried to look as fidgety as possible. He locked his knees long enough for them to start to shake. _Dear god Sherlock! You better see this! _

"A little nervous are we? You know my face then? It must be why you're shaking all over!" chuckled the Kidnaper, "But there's no need love, I don't bite… _much_." John flinched and the Kidnapper roared with laughter.

"Right then! On with the show! Wouldn't want to keep you audience waiting, now would we?" the Kidnaper smirked, showing off his unusually white teeth. A brief wave of relief washed over the doctor. _They __**are**__ watching! _

John felt his time left in the street was about to come to a close, so he quickly tapped out one final message, before John gaped at the tranquilizer gun the Kidnaper pulled out of his pocket.

John raised his hands in a defensive pose, "WOAH! There's no need for –" John's plea was cut short as a dart embedded its self, deep, in his chest. He looked down to see a cylinder with a fuzzy green end protruding from his sternum. The world began to fade as his knees gave out. John tried to spread his hands before him to cushion his fall but to no avail. None of his limbs were working. He caught one last glance at his assailant putting the ski mask back on and took a couple steps towards john.

The world turned black and all John could do was shutter at the sensation of being picked up by the waste, then a sense of weightlessness, then a cool, humming surface pressed up agents his cheek. Then…nothing. Just black.

* * *

"Uhhhhhhh." John quietly groaned, as he slowly began to come out of his mental cage. It had been torture in his head. All he saw was blackness, all he felt was nothingness. He didn't hear anything, didn't feel anything, but he could think! He could think clearly and sharply. But all he could remember were his army days; all the death he saw, being a doctor he saw far more than he should have, all the chaos. The locals mutilated and strung up on a power line because they had merely _talked_ to his troops. All he could think about were Faces. He saw the faces, floating in front of him, as if suspended on a string. That was all he saw. John imagined that's what it would be like to be dead. _Its getting worse, the dreams. I can't be __**imagining**__ that it's getting worse. I almost __**killed**__ Sherlock for god sake! _

… _SHERLOCK!_ Where was he? Why was he alone? The memories of the morning's events came flooding into his headanda wave of anxiety fell over his body. _I thought it was a dream…_ John internally groaned and switched his brain to the task at hand.

Slowly, he came to the realization that he was lying flat on his stomach. John tried to feel around for clues as the where he was but his hands had been strategically positioned, and _tied_, behind his back. _Perfect. This day just keeps getting better and better!_

John listened for movement, for breathing, for _anything_ that indicated someone else was in the room. When he was sure he was alone, he slowly opened his eyes, but all he saw was black. _A blindfold then my mouth is probably... _John tried to open his mouth to test his hypothesis. _Yep. Duck tape. What a spoilsport._

_God!_ John would have never thought that before meeting Sherlock. _What happened to him?_ John rolled over on to his back and sat in an upright position. He tucked his knees into his sore chest and, quite painfully, slipped his hands over his feet.

This took a few moments longer than it should have with John's sore chest. His hands popped over his feet and he ripped the tape off his mouth and eyes. Bright lights blinded him, throwing him off balance as he tried to get up. John fell to his knees as a wave of exhaustion swept over him, taunting him, dragging him back into the darkness.

He covered his eyes with his hands and cradled his head as he tried to tune out the ringing in his ears. He forced his hands to release his head and he looked up to examine his surroundings. As his eyes adjusted to the light he slowly began to notice bits of the room.

There were six steel chairs circling a concrete table about 2 meters in diameter. The room was, what looked like, a perfect square, with concrete walls. The table looked like it had sprouted up from the ground, with the same colored and textured concrete. Upon further investigation, John noticed that the room was stained with blood. Small patches of red here and there. Some one had tried to clean the room, not for the sake of cleanliness, but for the sake of slipping on the smelly puddles of blood. The table especially had streaks of blood, each emerging from a chair.

If John had to guess he would say that someone, sitting in the chair, was shot in the back of the head. Curiously enough, the steel chairs were spotless and cleaned to shine.

_This isn't looking good,_ thought John. _If he isn't worried about anybody finding this room then it must be hidden well and I probably won't be found any time soon…_

John slowly got to his feet, balancing with his hands on his knees. He took a couple of deep breath before pushing himself up into a straight, standing position. It took all of John's strength not to fall over, so he decided it best not to try to move for the moment.

His eye scanned the room for _a door, a window, or an exit… ANYTHING!_ His eyes fell on a shiny, steel door, much like the chairs, odd and out of place in this filthy room.

He took a deep breath and held it as he slowly stumbled his way to the door, determined **not** to touch anything. He slammed his cuffed hands agents the door, welcoming the sturdy structure. He braced his shoulder against the steel and reached for where the handle should have been. Instead, a patch of air where the handle should have been and 4, small, bolts imbedded in the door welcomed him.

He spun around and slammed his back into the door. _What were you thinking Watson? That would be too easy. _He sighed and began to circle the room, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the door, he slowly began to regain control of his limbs and balance.

His eyes and mind working in overdrive, he simply could not find a single way out besides the door. Nothing that could help him get the cuffs off and the only thing that could help him ward off and attacker was the chair. He glanced at the steel contraptions and began to run scenarios in his head. How would he get to the chair if he were in this position or that position? How would he angle his body to hurl the chair at his attacker with the most efficiency?

Satisfied that he had _something _of a plan his head, he spun around to the steel door and glared at it. He glared, and imagined it blowing up. He pictured every way for that door to disappear but no matter how much he glared at it, nothing happened. John lost track of how long he had been standing there and, out of habit, went to check his watch.

He slightly stamped his foot in irritation and tightly pressed his lips together, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. His watch had been broken so he sent it to the watchmaker's to have it fixed. _How long have I been here? _John walked over to the table and leaned against the edge. He closed his eyes and tried to think like Sherlock. _What would __**he**__ do?_

_All right, I can't see outside the room…. What __**can**__ I sense? _He remembered a trick that Sherlock had been mumbling about a few months ago while sitting at his microscope. He opened his eyes and pictured Sherlock sitting, hunched over his microscope, at the kitchen table. He pictured that day and the one sided conversation Sherlock had been having with himself. With a smile john closed his eyes and followed Sherlock's instructions EXACTLY.

John tuned everything out; he turned off his sense of smell, his sense of touch, his sight. He turned everything off, including his thoughts. And for a brief moment, all he did was listen.

He lost track of how long he was sitting there. He strained his ears and pressed his mind to tune out the beating of his own heart and the sound of blood rushing through his veins. He sat there, and heard nothing. Nothing but … _running water?_ _YES! WATER!_ He heard the sound of liquid running from the top of the room to the bottom.

"VERY GOOD!" John eyes snapped open and his body flinched at the sight before him. His kidnapper stood inches away from his chest, a smile plastered over his face. "The others took forever to get the tape off and move around, if they did at all… but _you_. _You_ took almost three minutes to get moving… record time I might add."

His breath was hot and stuck to John's face. He tried to remind himself to breath through his mouth, but then he felt the Kidnaper's breath **inside** his mouth and he quickly snapped it shut.

"Your familiar with my work yes?" the kidnaper hummed, his smile twitching as it approached it's maximum grin. When John realized his kidnapper was waiting for an answer he nodded his head, ever so slightly, _yes._ His eyes glued on the demented man in front of him.

"Fantastic!" the man shouted as he jumped back as spun around with his arms stretched above his head like a small child that had been given a lollypop. "Then we don't have to waste time explaining how this will work," his smile faded and his eyes skipped back to glare at john, his arms falling slightly, "do we?"

To be honest John had a limited knowledge of the man in front of him, mostly how dangerous he was from the bodies left for the police. He had no idea what this man had done to the victims to create such wounds. His mind had been screaming different variations of torture. When he examined the bodies there was a clear military style to the wounds but there had been no proof or evidence to support the theory so he had kept it to himself. Although he _knew _that Sherlock had suspected something similar when reviewing the case file.

Although given the look of warning his kidnapper was giving, he though it best to pretend he understood this process. "I understand." John mumbled. The grin returned to the kidnapper's face as he spun in his heels and prowled towards John. "Good." the kidnaper said as he inched closer to John.

For a moment the two men's eyes were locked. The kidnapper challenging, daring John to make a move. As the kidnapper inched closer, his hand fell over his pistol. He tapped the grip in an almost methodical pattern. John kept his eyes locked on the kidnapper's, all the while taking in everything around him. Although he could not make sense of it now the tapping clearly meant something and he drilled the pattern in to his brain to sort out later.

He had been a similar situation before, this stare off. He had challenged an order from his superior and although he could have been court marshaled for his comments, his posture, and gaze could never be officially reported. Therefore they were his best weapons against he stupid orders his superiors would foolishly hand out. His refusal to back down in the heat of the moment had always been his legacy in the army, if he ever had one.

Now he stared back into the eyes of someone who was clearly superior at the moment. John had faced death and won hundreds of times. In Afghanistan, and even after coming home, especially after meeting Sherlock, he had faced danger and always come out triumphant. He had felt fear, and pain, and rage but he had never felt what he was feeling then in that moment.

At this point the kidnapper placed his hand on John's cheek. John stiffened and flinched at the contact, allowing his eyes to flash towards the large, stern hand before returning to his kidnaper's gaze. John tried to pull his head away and smack the foreign hand, but he was stopped by another hand grabbing the chain in between his wrists and holding them in place.

John jerked back again in an attempt to get away from his assailant but to no avail. The table dug into the small of his back and his hands balled into fists, still kept at waste level by the kidnapper's strong grip.

"Now, now," purred the kidnapper as he traced John's jaw line with his finger. "No need for a struggle yet my dear."

John clenched his jaw and breathed heavily through his nose. Anger and humiliation coursed through his body. _I can't believe this is happening… _A newfound determination possessed John's body.

John squirmed and pushed and struggled to get away from the psychopath. Just an extra inch of space and John would be happy. He tried to rip his cuffed hands away from the man and at the same time curved his body to try and step around his kidnapper, but to no avail.

The hand once present on John's cheek had moved down to the side of his neck and the strong hands keeping the cuffs firmly in place. He pressed his hips firmly against John's, allowing for no movement then griped John's neck like a vice.

John pulled away but the hand followed him wherever he jerked. He looked into his kidnapper's eyes and saw something he was not expecting. _Disappointment?_ _Sadness?_

John froze and tried to decipher what was going on in his kidnapper's brain. His eyes scanned the other man for any sign of what was to come, and although he did not know why, a pit began to form in the deepest part of John's stomach.

The Kidnapper's thumb caressed John's neck, drawing circles around his artery, then slowly moving over towards his jugular. He kept drawing circles, staring at john's neck and slowly shaking his head ever so slightly.

"No," he whispered. "That's wrong. I though you were different. I though you would play willingly…"

John swallowed and felt the liquid slip past the man's fingers around his throat, and odd sensation that sent a shiver up his spine.

"Now…" the kidnapper took a deep, shaky breath. "You have to be taught. You have to be taught how to play. You can't resist, you see? If you resist…. Then well… you're not _really_ playing. You'd be forced and that just isn't any fun…"

"Now," He stated, stepping back from John with his hand still tightly around his throat. "We still have some time before the others arrive to play our game." A grin spread upon the man's face once again. "Lets have a bit of fun before they get here, shall we?"

John's heart skipped a beat as he realized what was about to happen, but before he could open his mouth to protest, the strong, forgotten hand holding the cuffs jerked up; pulling John's hands over his head as the other hand adjusted itself to the base of John's skull and slammed his head in to the table behind him.

The kidnapper leapt on to the table and pulled a sort of bolt out from one of the pockets in his cargo pants. He then slammed the bolt into the table above john's head, pinning the handcuffs to the table.

"What?" what all John managed to yell out, his ears still ringing from his head's collision with the concrete.

The kidnapper sat on John's stomach and leaned over the smaller man, his face inches away from the terrified solder's. "Now here is lesson number one," the kidnapper said as he pulled out a small scalpel. "One must always remember that I am the master. I am in charge and you will call me as such."

John desperately tried to keep any sort of dignity he might still have and pinched his mouth shut. He promised himself that he would never speak to this man. He wouldn't say a word. Not a single word. He would not give this man the benefit of hearing his voice, shaky and terrified.

"What's my name?" the kidnapper growled. John pressed his lips together even firmer and set his jaw. "Come on darling! What do you call me?" the kidnapper cooed as he began to pop each button off John's shirt with the knife.

He leaned in to the soldier's ear and John could feel the heat of his breath sticking to the side of his neck and face.

"Say it." he demanded in John's ear. When John refused once again, the kidnapper sat up and examined John. He slowly pushed aside the ruined shirt and exposed the pale skin beneath. The psychopath sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as his knife trailed the outline of john's skin. He traced the outline of each rib and seemed mesmerized by the flawless complexion that john possessed. His trail stopped at the scar on John's shoulder and clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"Some one has dirtied my canvas already!" he whined. John shivered, knowing what was about to come, he snapped his eyes shut and tilted his head back, as far away from the psychopath as possible.

"We'll just have to work around it!" the larger man giggled, as he plunged the scalpel about a centimeter into john's flesh, right next to the bullet wound. John's eyes flashed open in pain as he stifled a scream. His body jerked around as the larger man carved his pattern into John's flesh. His eyes about to pop out of there sockets, he stared at the ceiling, biting his lip until the pain ceased. A small trickle of blood flowed from his lip to join the small puddle that was forming around his shoulder.

Once the pain had ceased John tilted his head to see what the monster had done to his body. He immediately regretted it, as the first thing he saw was his kidnapper, wild eyed, blood smeared over his face, and a wild grin exposing all of the kidnapper's flawless, white teeth, sitting on his stomach, examining his handy work with gleeful, pure admiration that is seldom seen on earth these days.

John's eyes gazed over to his shoulder and he examined the new found art, imbedded in his body. The scar from the bulled wound was now the eye for a smiley face with a circle around it, much similar to the one in his flat. The newly carved eye bled profusely and john's eyes snapped back to the dark ceiling.

"Now," the kidnapper breathed, still catching his breath. "What do you call me? What is my name?"

"I don't know." John whispered.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you properly… did… Did you say you don't know?"

John nodded to confirm the statement. "No… no, No, NONONO! YOU KNOW MY NAME!" he shouted. "YOU-" he leaned into John's ear again. "You know my name," he said calmly. "I'll just help you remember." He stated as he plunged the scalpel in to the army doctor's abdomen once again; this time deeper, stronger, and slower. John cried out in pain, no longer able to keep it bottled up. Hot tears fell down his face as his body contorted in pain.

It seemed to never end, but in the midst of it all, John noticed something he hadn't seen before. On the ceiling in the corner opposite to him was a little red dot. Just a dot, a red light that could only come from one thing. A camera.

And little known to the army doctor, on the other side of the camera was none other than the consulting detective himself, along with 138 other online users.

* * *

**I know its a bit odd but I swear! THERE IS PURPOSE TO MY MADNESS! Special thanks to Nicole Hudson for editing for me! - IE. any mistakes you find that I missed can be directed towards her ;) Thanks for reading my shit and I hope you stick with it! (despite my habit of... not... updating... often...) REMEMBER! THE REVIEW BOX DOES NOT BITE! 3**


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